Between a Wok and a Hard Place (8 page)

"You know where to find me," I said. "And now I have a scripture verse for you. 'The truth will set you free.' "

I made a detour past the scene of the crime on my way to the police station. Melvin was sitting behind his desk,

facing the door. His eyes were open, but he was so still he may have been asleep. If he had been waiting patiently

immobile for his next victim to enter the tiny office, he was out of luck. I wasn't in the mood to be pounced on.

"Yoder! It's about time. I beeped you twenty minutes ago."

I yawned. "It takes fifteen minutes to get from Isaac Mast's barn to here. Plus which, I had business to attend to."

Melvin's left eye fixed on my bosom. Since I am not blessed in that department - " carpenter's dream" they called me

in high school - I chose to interpret Melvin's action as unintentional. Alas, most of what he does is.

"What kind of business?"

"None of your business," I said calmly. I was not about to discuss my necessary visit to the Masts' outhouse. The

Masts, incidentally, should be thoroughly ashamed of the facility. It is only a two-seater, and in such bad repair, I risked

life and limb just to make myself beeper-proof. And it wasn't even clean. There was simply no excuse for that.

It is gone now, burned to the ground by a crazed Presbyterian minister's wife, but we Yoders used to have the finest

outhouse in the county. Ours was a six-seater, built by Great-grandpa Yoder for his sixteen kids. Its heaviest usage was

before my time, but nonetheless, in my day that place sparkled. Folks used to come from as far away as Lancaster to

admire it. "You are what you eat," the saying goes. We Yoders chose to take that saying one step further.

It was a fluke that both of Melvin's eyes met mine. "Damn you, Yoder - "

"That does it, Melvin. I refuse to stand here and listen to your profanity. Does your mother know you talk like this?

Because if she doesn't, I'd be happy to clue her in."

It was a safe bet (not that I bet, mind you) that Melvin's mother did not know her son had a sewer mouth. Elvina

Stoltzfus was a good Christian woman, a pillar of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. Zelda Root may be the heavenly

body around which Melvin's heart orbits, but his mother exerts a stronger gravitational pull. If that were not the case,

Melvin and Zelda would be married, and Zelda would be the Mrs. Stoltzfus who trims Melvin's toenails on a monthly basis.

Melvin's mandibles masticated madly, but in the end he minded his manners.

"Did you learn anything from Isaac Mast?"

"He definitely knows something, but of course his lips are sealed. My guess, though, is that his son Enos was driving

the buggy. It may be coincidental, but there was a wheel with a bent rim in his barn."

"You talk to anyone else?"

I told him about my visit to Annie Kauffman.

"I never did trust that woman," he said. "In high school she let me copy from her chemistry exam, but she

purposefully wrote down the wrong answers!"

"That was a different Annie Kauffman, dear. This Annie Kauffman is Amish, remember? She's never been to high

school."

There are, in fact, eight Annie Kauffmans that I knew of in Bedford and neighboring Somerset counties. There are

probably a good deal more, since the name Kauffman is more common in that area than Smith.

"All the same," Melvin muttered, "a Kauffman is a Kauffman."

I wisely refrained from pointing out that if you prick a Stoltzfus, a Kauffman is sure to bleed.

"What about you?" I asked. "You were going to interview the people on North Main and Elm streets. Did you?"

"Of course I did, Yoder. I'm a professional."

"And?"

He treated me to a monocular glare. "No one heard or saw a thing. The world has already gone to hell in a

handbasket, if you ask me. No one wants to get involved anymore. Everyone claimed to be sleeping."

"It was the middle of the night, Melvin. They probably were sleeping."

Unless they were Aaron. Mama hadn't warned me that even God-fearing men were capable of experiencing certain

urges at inappropriate times. After forty-six years of having a bed to myself, I found it unsettling to turn over and not only

come face to face with a wide-eyed Pooky Bear, but to discover rooky Bear Jr. standing at attention.

"It could be part of an Amish plot," Melvin said.

"What?"

"I saw it on TV. Only then it was the Mafia - "

"Bye, Melvin," I said, and headed for the door.

"Wait, Yoder! I didn't tell you yet why I paged you."

"Speak. And it better be good."

"It seems; that our victim was Japanese."

"Or Chinese. Or Korean. Maybe even Thai or Vietnamese. Melvin, you can't just look at someone and tell."

That was especially true of Melvin, whose only encounter with anyone of Asian descent was at the Dairy Wok in

Bedford. Three years ago when the Dairy Bar Softserve went under, the Kim sisters bought it and briefly made it a go.

The industrious sisters, well into their sixties, began serving a Chinese menu along with the ice cream. Although the Kim

sisters were Korean, they were a quick study and their version of Chinese food was surprisingly well received. Gradually

they began to introduce Korean items to the menu, and the small restaurant continued to thrive. The Kim sisters were so

encouraged by their success, they sold the business, moved to Harrisburg, and opened Seoul Food. Unfortunately, I

heard that it failed almost immediately.

Poor Mr. Yamaguchi, who bought the Dairy Wok from the Kim sisters, wasn't even that lucky. Perhaps if he had

followed the sisters' example and started out with a more familiar Chinese menu, things might have been different. Or

perhaps he should have dropped the dairy items when he added the Japanese delicacies. It was definitely a mistake to

combine them. Serving sushi shakes the first day he was open was not a clever move. Ditto for eel-sicles.

Melvin smiled smugly. "The woman was Japanese."

"And you're a praying mantis, dear," I couldn't help but say.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, Magdalena, but they won't change a word on this fax I got from Harrisburg.

It says that while they haven't found a match for our victim's prints, a Japanese tourist, last seen in Erie, has gone

missing. Her name is Yoshi Kobayashi and she's twenty-three years old."

I willed my chin back into its proper position. "Let me see that."

It was all there in black and white. "Well?"

Triumphal smirks do not become most folks, but this one actually improved Melvin's visage, and I told him so. I said it

kindly, as a sort of penance for having maligned him with the mantis moniker a few minutes earlier.

"Is that all you've got to say?" he asked.

I was stumped. Okay, I had jumped to an erroneous conclusion, but I hadn't hurt his feelings. Trust me on that one.

The man has no feelings. To concede that he does would be to assume culpability for years of well-deserved

observations.

"What else should I say?" I asked crossly.

Melvin sighed deeply. Somehow he managed to squeeze a tear from each of his giant orbs.

"You have a sharp tongue, Magdalena, you know that?"

"Me? Look who's calling the kettle black."

"You should try walking a mile in my shoes, Magdalena. See how you feel then."

"I'd have blisters, of course, since your feet are far smaller than mine. I'd probably have athlete's feet as well."

"You see what I mean?"

"And you don't think you ever hurt my feelings?" I asked.

His eyes converged on my forehead. "Maybe you're right. We're a real pair, aren't we, Magdalena? Have you ever

imagined what it would be like if the two of us had ended up together?"

"How do you mean?"

"You know, married."

"In your dreams, buster."

I slammed the door as hard as I could, and I'm sure I would have succeeded in breaking the glass if my foot hadn't

been in the way.

8

Parking is at a premium at the intersection of North Main and Elm, so I limped the two blocks over to the scene of the

crime. The First Mennonite Church, the First Baptist Church, and the First Presbyterian Church claim three of the four

comers. Yoder's Comer Market occupies the fourth. Even on a slow day this busy intersection, which is the hub of Hernia,

sees at least twenty cars an hour, and a handful of buggies. Even tourists from New York City have told me they are

bewildered by all the traffic.